


A River to Cross and No Boat to Get Me There

by Shachaai



Series: For A Muse Of Fire [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Gen, can be read as shippy or not, it's just two grumbling Nations trying to get tipsy to survive politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19299952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Brussels, Belgium. July 2018. Over drinks, England and America (do not) talk politics. Really.





	A River to Cross and No Boat to Get Me There

**Author's Note:**

> Written for aph-fanficchallenges’ (on tumblr) Shipping & Platonic Week 2019, Day 1: _Old-Fashioned._ It’s late. orz The way I write these two always feels like it straddles a line somewhere between platonic and strangely romantic/sexual, and I think you can choose to read this as either shippy or not - either way, there’s a kind of (resigned, exasperated) love there.

_July, 2018  
A bar in Haren, City of Brussels, in the Kingdom of Belgium _

 

The bar is all suits and badges, but, as long as a guy knows what he’s looking for, the woman sitting nursing her drink _at_ the bar - smart, dark grey skirt suit, name and face on her badge hidden by being tucked away behind the lapel of her blazer - stands out from the other people in the room.

She’s the only Nation in the room.

Well, she’s the only Nation in the room until America sidles in, quite proud of himself for his tracking abilities in an urban landscape without the use of spy satellites. He takes himself to the bar beside his quarry and leans over its polished top to nab the bartender’s attention, body angled towards his colleague.

“An Old-Fashioned for me, sir, and -” he begins, and eyes up the drink in front of his companion: a tumbler about a third full of booze and ice, deep brown with shimmering tones of gold - _someone_ is hitting the spirits early (earlier than him) -, “another one for the lady too, I think?”

The bartender gives him a _look_ and America is just about to repeat his order, a bit more clearly this time, when England sighs beside him, looking up from her one-woman stare-off with her drink and repeats his request for him. In French. (America assumes it’s French. There’s a _L’Old-Fashioned_ in there anyway, rolling off England’s tongue in the way it never does in front of France, and a rather pointed _s'il vous plaît_.)

The bartender nods and gets to it, leaving England to give America her trademarked _suspicious_ look. She’s foregone pretty hairclips today so has to sweep back some of the side-fall of her sharp bob to glower at him effectively, and that sort of effort usually means business.

“This place isn’t your usual. Why are you following me?”

_Blunt._

“Everyone else was busy,” says America, and tries a charming smile that hopes England won’t point out how unlikely it is that _all of the Nations involved in NATO apart from England and America_ have found something else to do with their lunchtimes. There’s always at least _one_ Nation at loose ends for another to pounce upon.

England’s frown deepens and her eyebrows arch for the sky, so America lets his smile drop. There’s no real point lying, though the waste of his acting talents does make him pout. (In another life, Hollywood would be just eating this up. _Begging_ for his time.)

“Al _right_ , I came seeking refuge in audacity?”

“I’m audacity?” England asks, sounding undecided on whether she should be offended by that or not, only to swing her legs round hastily when America goes to pull out the barstool beside her and stomp down an unladylike heel on the foot rest, preventing its movement. “Oh - no, no, no, no, _no,_ Jones. I think you’re a blithering idiot at the moment as well.”

“Oh, _come on._ ” America protests, and gives the barstool another halfhearted yank. (Not a serious yank, because if he did that he might break England’s ankle, and England and the British and Washington _all of the rest of NATO_ would eviscerate him about him with their tongues and Russia would be a smug asshole about it again, and _God,_ England would never let him forget it if he broke her leg. _Ever._ ) “I’m buying you a drink!”

 _“Caveat emptor,_ ” says England snippily, and doesn’t let up on the barstool. Whoever said the English were civil, gracious and polite? “I came here for some peace and quiet, for a change.”

“Yeah, well, I came to join the club.”

America had _figured_ England had someplace to go when she’d pretended she’d not noticed the way France was deliberately ignoring her and swanned out of the NATO headquarters like she had better things to do. Without talking to any of her own people either. It usually meant England was taking herself directly to the nearest source of both dimness and decent alcohol so she could bitch-text whoever _wasn’t_ at the latest conference with her about how much she hated everything.

A drink and getting away from everyone glaring daggers into his back or offering gentle ‘suggestions’ about his boss had sounded pretty great to America, so he’d followed her. There isn’t enough time allotted for lunch for England to get _totally_ wasted (something the world and certainly America must be very grateful for), but some mild inebriation for the both of them would probably make the afternoon’s meetings a lot easier to get through.

America toes one of the barstool’s feet, letting the dull _thud_ shake up through England’s heel. “We can’t be social pariahs together?”

England still looks suspicious. “Alone, together?”

“With _alcohol,_ ” says America, right as the bartender slides their drinks over to them. The guy might hate English, but he has pretty good timing, so America digs out one of what he thinks is one of the more high-value pieces of rainbow paper most of Europe calls money out of his wallet and tells him to keep the change.

England huffs at him, but she withdraws her heel so America can finally pull the barstool out to sit, distracting herself by fishing the maraschino cherry out of her Old-Fashioned to pop it between her lips. “I swear: if you try to talk shop with me right now, I’ll stab you somewhere unpleasant.”

“Didn’t know there was somewhere _pleasant_ to stab a guy,” America comments as he finally takes a seat, holding up both hands in the universal gesture for _whoa there_ when England grins a grin that looks entirely too mean for an elaboration to be _anything_ America wants to hear about in public. “I’ll take your word for it; I don’t wanna know!”

“Where did your spirit of adventure disappear to?” England teases him, and finishes her first drink in one long swallow before reaching out to her new cocktail.

America picks up his own, gesturing in the vague but not explicit of England beside him as his fingers slide in the condensation on the glass, “There’s _adventure,_ and there’s…”

“Where angels fear to tread?” America takes a swallow of his Old-Fashioned so he doesn’t have to answer, the bitters heavy on his tongue under the whiskey burn, and England snorts at him. Flicks back her hair again, but thankfully doesn’t reach out to pat his cheek. “It’s been a long time since you were a cherub, darling.”

America squints at her, because he might have to recalculate just how quickly England can get herself shitfaced when the mood strikes. (He really needs to clean his glasses.) “How many drinks have you _had?_ ”

“Not enough,” sighs England, which is a feeling America can definitely empathise with. At least as long as England isn’t sliding sideways off her barstool. “I keep hoping the alcohol will drown out all their squabbling.”

“S’it working?”

“Like _fuck_ is it.” England toasts him idly, takes a sip of her drink, and then grumbles, “And _you_ don’t help.”

 _“Thanks,_ ” says America with the same amount of cheer. Maybe he can drown himself in whiskey.

“I’ve my own shit to deal with without my people harping on about _your_ shit,” England continues unnecessarily, because America, of course, could not have _possibly_ heard any of this same spiel from any of the other Nations or their people gathered in Brussels that day already. “If your tit of a boss could just _not_ do what he did in Canada and leave _one_ thing unfucked for the rest of us, that’d be smashing.”

“That’s the plan,” America sighs - and then hurries on before England can harangue him further, “but what’s _your_ strategy?”

The element of surprise works - for once - in his favour, and England is distracted. “Hm?”

“For winning over Europe,” America clarifies - and then pauses with his glass against his mouth, sweet cherry bobbing against his lower lip, realising something. “Is _that_ why you’re wearing a new suit?”

He’d _thought_ England’s skirt suit had been smart: it’s all crisp lines with a nipped waist, dark grey herringbone blazer against the stiff white collar of her blouse, but the straight skirt is definitely showing off a lot of her legs.

America has heard _far too many people_ compliment England’s legs in front of him over the years, and he groans at the mental images. “It _is,_ ain’t it?”

England has the decency to blush - or at least allow all the booze she’s imbibed so far to do it on her behalf. The colour bleeds down her throat, and America groans again into his Old-Fashioned, taking a large swig from his tumbler and tucking the cherry into his cheek. “I -”

“I _don’t wanna know,_ ” America gripes, and hopes the whiskey will burn his revelation out of his head. _Europe._

Still pink, England coughs, and takes another sip from her own cocktail. For a few moments, they have quiet.

“...Probably for the best,” England admits quietly, eventually, and then shifts enough over on her stool so she can nudge her knee up against America’s. “Thanks for the drink.”

**Author's Note:**

> The 2018 NATO summit was held in Brussels, Belgium, July 11-12. It took place in the (new) NATO headquarters found there, in a complex in Haren (part of the City of Brussels municipality). I don’t know if there are any good bars nearby the complex, but you’d _think_ there would be with all the demand there must be.
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> The 44th G7 summit was held in La Malbaie, Quebec, Canada, in June 2018 - obviously, before the NATO summit. It received a lot of attention internationally because of (as others have more tactfully put it) ‘a significant decline of relations of members with the United States’, and was dubbed G6+1 by France and parts of the media as a result. The US withdrew in what seemed like a huff from several important international agreements, and was widely condemned by international politicians, climate change scientists, trade policy experts, foreign policy experts… etc. The US President left the summit early in order to travel to Singapore for the USA’s first summit with North Korean leader Kim Jong-un, and was dubbed ‘the democratic world’s worst nightmare’ - all of which, of course, led to a rather fraught political atmosphere for all nations going to the NATO summit the following month.
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> ...Do I really need to make a note about Brexit?
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> All the titles for this ‘verse come from poetry/literature created around the time the fic is set. This one is taken from a few lines from the poem   
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> Running  
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>  , by Joy Harjo, which was published in July 2018 in The New Yorker:  
>  __  
> Now I have to find my way, when there’s a river to cross and no  
>  Boat to get me there, when there appears to be no home at all.


End file.
